Monday, August 9th
5:00 pm
Driving back home from the hospital I can’t speak. I am
working so hard to hold on, to keep from completely disintegrating at the
thought of having checked our son into that psychiatric ward, that I wonder how
I will get through the next hour, and the hour after that, and the one after. I
had called my sisters from the ER last night after receiving the first doctor’s
pronouncement of schizophrenia, and they had offered immediately to come and
help. No, I told them … there’s nothing you could do, I will keep you posted.
But today, I realize that I am completely dysfunctional at the moment, and it
is not fair to rest everything on my husband’s shoulders. I text an SOS to my
sisters. Literally. Very quickly I get a text back telling me help is on the
way… details to follow. I put away my phone and focus on breathing.
_____________________________________________________________________________
Later that day we arrive back at the men’s ward with Scott’s
belongings. I don’t remember packing them, nor driving back to the hospital. I
remember ... collapsing on the couch in our living room, literally prostrate with
the pain of what was happening to Scott. I remember, my husband trying to
comfort me, telling me that he promised me our son would be ok, and my telling him
not to make promises he could not keep. I remember, hearing my husband, who had
gone down to the basement to try to keep the sound of his sobs from me.
Scott is out cold. A tray of food sits on the table in his
room. There is some round flat breaded something, which I expect is meat of
some type. There are also round carrots, the frozen kind. It crosses my mind
that I think they are called “carrot coins”. I can hardly imagine a less
appealing looking dinner. A kind nurse is on duty. She smiles at us and we sit
together in white plastic chairs in the hallway outside Scott’s room.
She tells us that he tried to leave after we did and did not
react well to finding the doors locked. He punched the walls and became angry. He is not a small guy, and his fury when he is manic can be intimidating.
Apparently they gave him some serious tranquilizers since he is now completely comatose.
He did not stir when we touched his shoulder or called his name. She reassures
us that sleep is the best thing for him now. It is how the brain heals itself she
says. We tell her about our experience
at the ER. Amazingly, she scoffs at the ER doc’s diagnosis. I am only a nurse
she says, but I can tell you he is not schizophrenic. This is most likely a
drug induced psychosis, or mania from bipolar.
Unbelievable! I am so relieved tears fill my eyes. I may
have actually taken her hand to thank her for sharing this insight with us. I
walk out of the ward to make a phone call since cell phones are not allowed on
the floor. I call my younger sister, who lives in Washington DC and is
already en-route to New York. “The nurse says she doesn’t think it is
schizophrenia,” I say joyfully into the phone. “It’s most likely bipolar”. My
sister pauses, not quite sure how to take the information. When did a diagnosis
of bipolar become joyful news she must have wondered. We share details on her
ETA and that she should just let herself into the house since we will be asleep
before her arrival estimate of midnight. That night, we sleep the sleep of the
dead. In all honesty, for me it is an Ambien-induced slumber. My goal was to
sleep instantly and not have time to think.
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